


but we grow older with each passing day

by Asterin



Series: Hamilton Medieval AU - aka hamilton, but in a castle [2]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Canonical Character Death, Grief/Mourning, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Light Angst, M/M, but it may yet happen, hamilton does what he wants, recovering from said grief/mourning, they're not in love, washington is tired
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-14
Updated: 2018-12-13
Packaged: 2019-08-01 20:43:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16291439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Asterin/pseuds/Asterin
Summary: This time, Alex knows how it begins.He gives no thought to what comes after.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A sequel to [we're far too young to die](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14568627), in a sense.

It still hurts.

Months pass and Alex still wakes with fingers searching the stretch of his bed, curling in on himself when he finds nothing but empty air. For a time, he wrote a letter every night, then one a week, then one a month. Some nights he stares at the ink on his hands and imagines it is blood – wonders if it was somehow his fault.

Hercules drinks. Lafayette flirts. Burr talks less, smiles less. Alex writes. And writes. And writes.

It still hurts.

The king carries on, barely a falter in his step or his smile or his rule. No black clothing. He wore black for the funeral, stood stoic and alone and watched the flames, tears flickering orange and red. He vanished for an hour afterwards and returned, a phoenix, in his red and gold. If his eyes are bloodshot in the mornings, even now, no one says a word.

 

Dawn. One year later.

There's a pounding at the door and a pounding in his head and all he can see behind his closed eyelids is John's worn knuckles and bright eyes and crooked smile. His stomach clenches. Sitting up, he can almost imagine it’s that day again; that if he turns his head, the crown will be on his desk and that godforsaken letter...

There's a girl at the door. She's the cook's daughter and she's holding something in her outstretched fist.

It’s a letter.

Alex winches, rubs at his face.

“A summons, Mister.”

He doesn't take the letter.

“From the king.”

 _He_ _doesn't take the letter._

She's ten years old and she's got curls like he had and the smile is slipping off her face.

His hands shake.

He takes the letter.

 

The throne room is full of people. Not everyone, but everyone important – the aristocrats, the head servants, the top scholars, the king's physician.

Alex can hear the murmurs the moment he crosses the threshold, the _what's happening why are we here what's going on_. Alex knows. He read the letter - thrice over, nicked his quivering finger on the edge, tried to work out how he felt. Almost happy, he decides. Almost.

The king sits like a statue. There's purple under his eyes.

Alex stops before the throne, bows deeply like he's supposed to, squares his shoulders as he rises. The king cracks a tiny smile, ushers him to one side and oh, god.

_Seventeen years old in a city of colour and noise with a warm hand on his shoulder. A bright grin. Red banners and bells and **you got a lotta words in that head of yours** **, son.** Callouses. Candles, broken pens. Curls looping his fingers and lips against his in hidden corners and a heart so tragically full._

It still hurts.

 

The king stands.

The room falls silent.

“Today, on the anniversary of my son’s death-” he swallows tightly- “I would like to announce that I’m taking a piece of his advice and taking on two advisers.”

Two?

 _Two_?

That letter did not mention _two_.

A flicker of movement on the other side of the throne catches Alex's attention and he turns just enough. There's a man – thick curls, unblemished skin, arrogant posture, long fingers. Too tall for his own damn good. It’s nothing like looking at the sun, and yet...

He looks over. Lifts the corner of his mouth – challenging, but not quite hostile. _What are you gonna do?_

Alex is no Icarus, but if he was, John was his sun; his letters his wax and feathers. If he was Icarus, well, he has already crashed and burned in the golden light that was their love.

And yet

and yet

and yet

since he can’t seem to die, why not try again?

Alex narrows his eyes into bitterness, gives his chin an insolent tilt, curves his lips in an unspoken challenge.

_Just. You. Wait._

 

It still hurts.

 

Jefferson moves into the room nextdoor, and Alex bides his time.

He counts days, counts arguments.

He’s at three and twenty-eight when Jefferson breaks, grips his arm in a quiet corner and presses him into the wall, stifles Alex’s curses with his mouth. For a handful of moments, Alex knows nothing but heat and anger and glorious, _glorious_ satisfaction, but then Jefferson pulls back.

His hands are on Alex’s shoulders and his cheeks are flushed and there’s something dangerously like concern in his eyes, like he’s expecting Alex to say no. Clearly he hasn’t yet learned that Alex _doesn’t_ say no. Not to a fight, not to a friendship, not to whatever-the-fuck this will turn into.

He tips his head back to meet Jefferson’s gaze. “Is that the best you can do?”

Jefferson snarls, hands moving to Alex’s hair, tugging, arching his spine against the wall.

Anywhere else, he’s all carefully-contained energy; smooth strides and drawling words and artfully arranged clothing but this- _this_ is chaos. Desperation.

John touched him with a tenderness Alex never dared believe he deserved, like John was scared he’d break. Here, in the dim torchlight, bells tolling in the distance, Jefferson grips Alex like he _wants_ him to break.

They kiss until neither can breathe.

Alex sees the lights of a supernova behind his eyelids.

He _burns._

 

Days blur into weeks blur into months.

It becomes a habit; fingers digging into hips, bruised lips, aching lungs. Stolen moments in the darkest hours of the night, after heated debates in the throne room; near-misses in rooms temporarily emptied of people. Jefferson – and it’s always Jefferson, never Thomas – does not linger. The tension splinters, there is fire and passion and fury, and then he straightens his coat and vanishes, leaving Alex crumpled in the ashes.

The king knows.

Of course he knows.

He sits tall and imposing between them during official meetings, watching debates devolve into yelling matches with weary eyes. One word would stop Alex in his tracks but most days he doesn’t bother. Alex wonders, as he boils over again and again, if maybe, possibly, the king sees how much brighter Alex burns these days. If he’s noticed. If he lets them rail on and on because it’s better than a broken young man alone deep into the night, unwashed hair and blackened fingers and letters letters letters.

Maybe.

 

It still hurts, but… less, somehow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Couple questions for y'all  
> 1\. Favourite line?  
> 2\. What part hit the hardest?  
> 3\. Do you want a second chapter/another oneshot on The First Time Jefferson Lingered (aka The Day Jefferson Become Thomas)? Because I was going to include a scene in here but I couldn't work out how to make it fit. So if you want it, hit me up!
> 
> I love each and every one of you, thanks for reading.


	2. Chapter 2

This time, Alex knows where it begins.

He gives no thought to what comes after.

That, he thinks, was where he failed with John – allowing himself to dream. Allowing himself to paint these gilded pictures in his mind of what they could be, what they _would_ be, once things evened out and the world lay down at their feet. He had thought the two of them invincible; these daydreams infallible truth.

It is better, he thinks, to expect nothing at all.

He takes it day by day, loses himself in Jefferson’s hard edges and harder words, the hot press of lips against his skin. He seeks no kindness here, no warmth. Expects no care.

Jefferson - and it's always  _Jefferson_ \- never lingers. Never.

Until he does.

 

It’s a cold night, sharp on the edges – the stars too bright the wind too strong the aching hunger in his bones too much to bear.

They take their time.

Afterwards, Alex lies with his too-heavy limbs and fractured lungs and Jefferson, in an uncharacteristic act of kindness, searches the room for a cloth to wipe him down with.

He finds nothing.

Alex is not a man of order, not in anything but his words. Jefferson needles him for it, voice barely above a murmur in the silence of the room, then drops to his knees beside the bed and reaches underneath.

Alex stops breathing.

He knows the exact moment that Jefferson finds the chest, knows too well the sound of fingers tapping on the leather. He hasn’t locked it.

“Oh?”

_He hasn't locked it._

“What's this?” Jefferson has that mocking smirk on his face as he drags it out, tone telling Alex, _promising_ , that if he sees the letters, he will never let it go. Alex's grief will become his destruction, twisted into a weapon by Jefferson's hands.

His fists clench, his spine crackles, and yet he makes no move to rise.

Jefferson undoes the latch with deft fingers.

Alex shuts his eyes tight.

He hears the crinkling of paper as if from a distance, Jefferson’s murmured, “My god.”

There is fire in his mind and fire in his soul and his existence is burning and this is the end the end the end. There will be no coming back. His grief will become his destruction.

But then the lid is closed. The latch is clicked down. The chest is pushed back into place.

The bed creaks - a groan of the dying - as Jefferson sits down.

“My god,” he says again, and this time it sounds like a prayer.

His hand touches Alex's bare shoulder – hesitant, gentle – and like a spell broken Alex is up and moving, trousers tugged on, curses spilling from his open mouth and “Get out get out _get out_ ”.

Jefferson doesn't move.

He leans back on his hands and looks up at Alex, half-dressed and ragged in the middle of the room. There's something in his eyes that Alex hasn't seen in him before. Something that softens his edges.

It looks a heck of a lot like pity.

“ _Get_. _O_ _ut_.”

If Jefferson doesn't leave – if he doesn't get off Alex's bed and out of Alex's room, Alex knows with a sickening kind of certainty that he will hit him. He will hit him and then he will cry and Jefferson will mock him and his grief will become his destruction.

Jefferson stands.

The world stills.

But he takes a step forward instead of a step back and suddenly it's all too much.

Jefferson takes the punch without so much as a sharp word, and only sits back down quietly and rubs his jaw as Alex shatters.

It's ugly.

He can't remember when he last cried like this, with his fists balled against his eyes and his bones shaking. His knees are weak but he will not kneel, not like this, not with Jefferson watching. He can't breathe but he chokes each sob into silence, presses his fists harder against his eyes like that will hold him together.

When he comes back to himself, Jefferson is not looking at him. His gaze is on the floor, on his clasped hands, on the moonlight through the window.

“I'm sorry,” Jefferson says, and holds up a hand as Alex's eyes flash. “I know,” he sighs, “I know you don't want to hear it.” He pushes his hands into his hair. “Come here.”

Alex seeks no kindness here, no warmth.

But still he lets Thomas fold him into his arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I said I'd write this a while back and now I've done it! Thanks for reading~  
> What's your favourite line?


End file.
